


Paths to Destiny

by deepspacetrans



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Author is trans, Idiots in Love, M/M, MY fanfiction and I get to decide who's trans (everyone), Trans Elim Garak, Trans Julian Bashir, Trans Male Character, ableism/eugenics tw (not really but i feel like it's implied w/talking about richard & amsha bashir), dissociation tw, god this all sounds so fucking dire but i promise it ends up good at the end, it's all about the healing power of t4t romance over here, misgendering TW, parental abuse tw, rated T for brief fade to black sex scene, t4t
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 07:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23467642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepspacetrans/pseuds/deepspacetrans
Summary: Julian Bashir is openly proud of being trans. For Elim Garak, it's one of many secrets. They are both trans men, but with very different histories and relationships to that fact. This affects how they approach their relationship. But they work things out in the end :)
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 13
Kudos: 70





	Paths to Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a bi transmasc person and there's really not enough t4t content out there so I had to write some myself. I've never actually written or posted fanfiction before so I hope it's decent. Please comment or something if you like it! Sorry about the kind of cliche title. Mind the trigger warnings

Julian Bashir is proud of being trans. He wears it openly, always willing to talk about his weekly testosterone hyposprays and the healing process of his top surgery. He’s especially willing to talk to other trans people, and those questioning their gender. Though not a counselor or therapist by training, he makes it known that his office will always be open to those who want to talk, even just to figure things out. He’ll bring it up on missions as well, noting the ways someone’s gender influences their bearing or perspective, things cis people might not notice. His intelligent mind is constantly whirring with observations and analysis, and he never shies away from sharing them. Sometimes when they’re not even relevant. He talks, and talks, and relates anecdotes, and discusses nuance, and it’s enough that most people don’t even notice the topics he doesn’t talk about. He doesn’t talk about his parents. When asked a direct question, he will seem to entertain it, but quickly he steers the discussion into another musing on the particular experience of transitioning in high school while also being under an academic spotlight. He doesn’t want to talk about them.  
He feels proud now, looking in the mirror. He runs his hands over the stubble that forms after a few days without shaving, or the sticky-smooth texture of his face just after he has shaved. He pulls his shoulders back and stands tall, offering his flat chest to the world without fear. He wears a tight-fitting tennis uniform, walking through Quark’s to the holosuites, unselfconscious. This body is his, now, and he lays claim to it with a fierce determination. He elected to keep his top surgery scars. Two straight thin lines over his ribs. He knows that a dermal regenerator would make short work of them, make him look like a cis man. But he wants people to know. Julian Bashir is a self-made man. Julian Bashir chose to look the way he does. Julian doesn’t pray, but massaging scar cream into his chest a few weeks after his surgery was the closest he’s ever come to feeling holy.  
He remembers looking in the mirror at 8, at 12, at 14, and feeling tortured without truly knowing why. He remembers seeing the long dark hair framing his large eyes and thinking that there’s been a mistake, that he’s the victim of some cruel god’s joke.  
And he remembers the day he learned it wasn’t all a mistake. He saw the look in his mother’s eyes, apprehensive yet hopeful, as she described all the things they’d changed about him. The intelligence. The reflexes. The stature, the frame. The coordination. All so that he’d be their perfect, brilliant little girl. They told him he was six when they did it. He remembered being seven and being complimented on his delicacy, his “natural” grace. He remembered being seven years old and already wanting to sink into the floor. Before he could even begin to grieve for the person he was, the weight of years came crashing onto his head like a waterfall and suddenly he felt like he was drowning. He looked at his father’s steady brow and he saw his mother’s lips moving and he couldn’t hear anything but the rush of water in his ears. And then he was inside himself and his mouth was moving, yelling, trying to assert how wrong this was. But it wasn’t even his mouth, he realized, they’d designed it, like he was a holoprogram they were trying to get just right. He heard his voice dimly, high and cracking, and he realized they must have designed that too. He looked at his hands and they weren’t shaking. He was in the most emotional distress he’d ever been in and his hands weren’t shaking. They must have coded that into his genes. He puppeted this designed body out the door, deaf to his parent’s protests, and practically flung himself down the stairs to the porch. His designed feet nimbly navigated the stairs and brought him safely to the bottom. Coordination, reflexes… He was inside and outside of himself. His body wasn’t really his. He looked at the willowy frame and the slim wrists and the graceful hips and he could almost envision a doctor’s hands designing every section of it, consulting his parents at every turn. He’d never felt less perfect in his life. He couldn’t bear to feel his own skin in his clothes. There wasn’t a part of it that was his.  
When he went back in the house, he told his parents that he’d never forgive them. He told them that they might have chosen everything else for him when they had no right to but that they couldn’t choose his name. They couldn’t choose his gender. And they couldn’t choose to be a part of his life ever again after the minute he left their house.  
A few years later, the first time he pressed a testosterone hypospray to his skin, it felt like taking back something stolen from him. The first time his voice dropped, it felt like he could relax a muscle that had been pulled tight since before he could remember. Now, when he looks in the mirror, he knows how far this body is from Richard and Amsha’s vision. When someone else notices the scars on his chest, or asks about when he knew he was trans, he takes delight in telling them specifics, going into detail. Each word is an assertion that he wrote this part of his narrative himself. Even if they can’t know exactly how much was chosen by his parents before, they will know that he and only he chose this. Julian Bashir grabbed onto his destiny with both hands, and held on to it with bloody fingernails and never let go. Nothing can make him let go.

Elim Garak bartered for his destiny.  
Enabran Tain was not a kind man. He was a tactician. He knew that the key to successful manipulation was finding out what the other person wanted above all else. A hook. An all encompassing desire was Tain’s way in. And when the eight year old child that lived in his house came to him crying, saying, “Uncle, I don’t want to be a girl anymore, I wish I was called Elim and I was a boy”? Well, that was a hook Enabran Tain couldn’t resist. Because Enabran wanted things too. He wanted a protege. He wanted someone who would be able to carry on his legacy of expertise, of duty to Cardassia. And he wanted an edge. Something the other Obsidian Order operatives didn’t have. An extra layer of stealth. And here it was, staring him in the face with teary eyes under still-developing brow scales. On the official Cardassian census, and all government records, Tolan Garak had a daughter. If this child was a son instead… he didn’t exist in the eyes of the state. Eight years old, and he had already accomplished what many spies could only dream of. Enabran felt a slow smile begin to tug at the corner of his mouth. 

So Elim agreed. He would get to be a boy. He would be a boy and in return he would be a spy. He studied. He listened as the man he knew as his uncle lectured him on espionage techniques. He learned about loyalty to Cardassia, and more and more he could convince himself that that was his own idea, a natural proclivity. And every day he was rewarded with the flame of joy that leapt inside him every time Tain called him “Elim”, or "the boy". Lessons on Cardassian masculinity mingled with lessons on how to subtly manipulate a target.  
But there was always the threat that it could all be taken away. When he made a mistake on one of Tain’s endless tests of wit, or dared to defy him on any little thing, he would be locked in a closet, and as his chest tightened and the walls began to close in on him he'd hear him just outside the door, intentionally talking loudly about how "she isn't as skilled as she should be…".  
Even years later, after the covertly obtained androgen supplements had done their work and Elim had done his, Tain would call on subspace and threaten to go to one of the least principled cosmetic surgeons he knew and have them file down the bones and ridges of his face until he would never pass as a man again. "I made you the man you are now," he would snarl, "and I can make you back into the girl you were before." No matter how much Elim knew that Tain no longer had that sort of power over him, the words never failed to plant a cold ribbon of fear in his chest, to make him feel like he was in a cramped closet again with no escape. Garak would end the transmission with trembling fingers and spend as much latinum as necessary to rent the nearest holosuite. He would program it to a wide open field, drenched in sun, with no walls in sight, and sit in the middle of it, sobbing up at the implacable sky until he was left drained and numb. Then he'd summon up a mirror and some tissues, and clean himself up until he could walk out of there looking like he'd merely run a rigorous exercise program.  
Elim Garak has bartered for his destiny, and he has gotten what he wanted in the end. He can't forget the deal he struck, or who he'd made it with. But he is Elim Garak, and whether you see him as tailor, spy, gardener, operative, or assassin, nuisance or monster, he is a man. And here on the station, so far away from his home, with the government he has been made to serve in shambles, he is out of Tain's reach.

When they fall in love, it's a surprise to both of them. Elim, despite the seduction and the slippery smiles and lingering hands, never expects to get too far. Someone actually seeing him naked is far too much like brutal honesty for his taste, and often demands an explanation that can't be easily obfuscated away. And Julian, for his part, knows he's not everyone's preference. So he assumes, much as he'd like it to be different, that the cryptic Cardassian with the knowing smirk is just trying to use him for information. That's more likely, any way. Isn't it? Information, maybe a quick fuck on the side, but nothing lasting (he tries not to let this bother him. Usually, it wouldn’t.). But as the regular lunches stretch on, and nothing more happens between them, they're both forced to admit that they want to prolong whatever this is. Lunches extend into holosuite adventures, touches become more lingering. What were once fleeting glances become staring into each other's eyes for seconds at a time. Still, the first time Garak invites Bashir back to his quarters after a glass or two of kanar at Quark's, it feels like he's signing his own death warrant. Everything will fall apart after this, he's sure of it. Julian will avoid his eyes tomorrow morning, then start "forgetting" to show up for lunches. The tall, handsome doctor who is so open about his own transness wouldn't understand why Garak has never brought this aspect of his history into their witty repartee. But right now, he's a little tipsy and the kanar tastes pleasantly spicy in his mouth. Bashir's hand is warm on his thigh under the bar counter. The doctor keeps finding excuses to lean back against him when he's laughing at someone's joke, and his shoulders are slim but solid. And this has been going on for over a year now and they still haven't so much as kissed despite the clear mutual desire and Julian's lips are shining with the last sip of his drink. So Elim tries not to think about tomorrow too much.  
They are in Elim's quarter's--finally, and Julian is being pressed up against the wall--finally, and he is only thinking of how lucky he is when he tugs, asking, at the waistband of Elim's underwear. Elim looks almost pained for some reason, but then he closes his eyes for a moment and nods, so Julian slips his fingers under the warm fabric. His breath stutters in surprise for a second. He pulls back from a kiss and there's something he's never seen before in the other man's eyes. Elim looks apologetic, and deeply, deeply despairing. So Julian decides not to ask questions, for once not to voice any of the dozen snappy remarks that come to mind. Before Elim can say anything, Julian just leans back in and kisses him harder. He asks if this is still okay. He doesn't ask for an explanation. He keeps not asking for one the whole night.  
And the next day, when they meet up at Quark’s for lunch, nothing has changed in his eyes or demeanor. He picks up where they left off last time, discussing a particularly contentious Cardassian novel. Garak feels a flare of hope like nothing he's ever felt before. 

He still has to make sure. After a lull in the conversation he asks, as delicately as he can, "my dear doctor, you do remember last night, don't you?". Asking such a direct question is unusual for him, but his mind will not let him rest. Garak had only been mildly intoxicated, but perhaps he had misjudged the human's constitution and Bashir had been much further gone than he had thought. Or maybe he is planning on bringing it up later rather than breaking off their relationship in public. He has agonized over this and similar worries in the hours since he awoke in his bed to find the doctor was already on a shift.  
Julian smiles. "Every minute of it."  
"Ah", Garak says, and stops. "...Excellent."  
"I thought so, too." There's nothing deeper than smug amusement and flirtation in the doctor's face. His eyes stay on Garak's longer than usual.  
Garak doesn't know what to say. He feels his customary smooth smile growing stiff as the seconds wear on. This is not going the way he expected. Where is the awkward silence, the avoiding of eyes? He's never had sex with someone without first telling them he's trans and had them still look at him the same after. Then again, he’s never had sex with another trans person, either.  
"...Why, didn't you?" Bashir prompts, his face growing worried at Garak's lack of response.  
"Oh! Oh yes, of course," Garak says quickly. "I had a wonderful time."  
Bashir visibly relaxes. "Good." He isn't getting it. The wrinkles in his forehead smooth themselves back out.  
For someone so intelligent, his doctor can truly be quite dense sometimes, Garak reflects. He may have to use a more direct approach. Tain’s voice is in the back of his head, telling him not to honestly question the target at this stage, to poke and prod and goad him until he lets slip something of the shape of his answer. Garak shakes his head a little to interrupt this line of thinking. Bashir isn’t a target, and he isn’t trying to get tactical information out of him. He’s just a man who touched Garak last night and didn't flinch. A man who Garak cares about an inordinate amount. And for some reason, he trusts that Julian will give him a true answer if he just asks. Which is quite unwise of the doctor, really, but Garak doesn't mind.  
He takes a deep breath. “Actually, my dear, there is one thing.”  
“Yes?” Bashir’s eyebrows raise in concern.  
“You...weren’t taken aback by the...way we are alike?” it comes out more vulnerable than he intended. He quickly schools his face back into a neutral impression.  
“What, you mean the fact that you’re trans too?” Julian has lowered his voice so that no one overhears in the din of the restaurant. Garak mentally thanks the doctor for possessing at least a sliver of tact. “I must admit I had made some...assumptions, but that just means I should reexamine my own preconceptions a bit. Did you think I would be disappointed?”  
“Well, no, I thought you would be aghast!” Garak curses his voice for rising sharp over the hubbub. “You tell everyone about your business, of course you wouldn't want to be with someone who cannot afford to be so bold, so, so, so… _honest_!" He hears himself spitting the words across the table like an insult. Winded, he waits for Julian's retort.  
But Bashir only smiles gently. His dark eyes are so soft that Garak can't look directly at them. "Elim," (and his voice is quiet again) "if I wanted someone who was always going to be completely honest about his past, then I chose the wrong man. I know you well enough by now to know that you might never tell me everything about who you are. And I’ve decided I don’t care. I want to be with you, regardless.”  
Garak finds himself uncharacteristically speechless again. Only in his most self-indulgent of fantasies had he allowed himself to hope for this.  
When he stays silent, staring, for a few more seconds, Julian speaks up again. "Well?" he asks, eyebrows twisting in worry again. "I suppose that was more of a confession than I meant it to be. I'd...understand if you don't feel the same way. I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable, but I just had to say something, it's been so long, and--"  
Elim is startled into speaking as soon as he comprehends Julian's worry. "My dear--Julian, of course I would like to be with you, from the first few days I got to know you, I--did I not make it obvious? I merely assumed that because of the, ah, circumstances of my past, you would prefer someone who could be more forthcoming, perhaps someone who shared your Federation worldview. I had assumed I was merely...a distraction." _I had assumed you would tire of me once you learned the truth _. He doesn't voice that part.  
“A distraction? Elim, of course not, I--I care about you very much, you know” Julian says quickly. He takes his hand across the table, moving his chair closer to do so. His hand is warm and impossibly real.  
Elim feels the dread that had suffused his morning slowly, improbably, begin to lift. Julian...wasn't going to draw away from him. He wasn't disgusted with him, didn't feel betrayed. He wasn't going to denounce him in the middle of Quark's. He would be there tomorrow, as if nothing had changed between them. Perhaps he would even be there the next day, and for a long time after that.  
There’s nothing else to say, so he leans in and kisses him. Julian’s lips feel the same as they did last night, but now Garak allows himself to imagine doing this again, and again. Garak feels the future opening up ahead of him, wide and full of light. Full of Julian’s smile, his sparkling eyes, his warm hands.  
For the first time in a long time, he’s looking forward to tomorrow.__

**Author's Note:**

> -I recently started reading A Stitch In Time so I had to edit Elim's backstory a bit to make it fit more. I figure if he started puberty blockers (or, you know, Cardassian equivalent) at 8 or 9 he would have been able to be pretty stealth by the time he got to Bamarren (which, frustratingly, the book never actually specifies how old he is when he does) so it doesn't change much.  
> -also, if it wasn't clear, the last part/them actually getting together takes place sometime after The Wire  
> -I made up the concept of Cardassian androgen supplements as an equivalent to testosterone but feel free to use it  
> -there's a nsfw interlude that I'm also working on but it'll probably be a different work bc I thought it would break up the pacing of this one to have like half of it be a sex scene  
> -also I might do a chapter 2 at some point but no promises  
> 


End file.
